Little Lies
by Tight Hold On Death
Summary: ... after that, we kinda stuck together. Fur-ev-ah. Random one shot for Nikki-Fox's Unlikely Couples Contest


**THOD - **Ah, both a completely stupid and random one-shot, and a contest entry! It's my entry for Nikki-Fox's Unlikely Couples Contest! It's... StanxDogPoo! WTF. And yes, I randomly made up the name Lucas. Because no one should be named freaking _DogPoo. _Cept a certain jerk in my class.

He could be named something fucked up like Dog Crap... Hehe.

* * *

If you'd told me I'd end up in bed with Stan Marsh half a year ago, I'd hit you. Hard. And walk away.

If you'd told me five weeks ago, I'd laugh in your face and ignore you.

If you'd told me two weeks ago, I'd stare at your in horror.

But now… I'm not even sure what the hell is going on anymore. I'd always been one of those people in the background, somehow blending with the wall despite being constantly covered in dirt. Until a few days ago, that is.

You know how High School is, right?

Bla, bla, bla, party, bla, bla, bla, sex, bla, bla, bla something equally as uninteresting. And here in South Park; _party _equals _sex,_ which equals social status, which equals more _sex, _and _sex _is equal to everything good about life, which is equal to surviving_. _

Meaning _party _equals surviving.

So when I – for once – got invited to a party, I saw a chance to up my reputation a little. After all, just because I had a name didn't mean anyone actually bothered enough to find it out. Because I was just that lame.

And that night my only goal was to make sure people finally saw me as someone. Someone worth inviting to parties and all that shit. I would make this math as well, but I won't. But I'll tell you one thing; it could be hilariously much fun. It's not everyday you get a chance like this, after all.

I would fight bad reputations like Superman fights against wooden benches!

...

Yeaaah, I was on a roll.

Almost five hours before this bloody party I filled the tub and started digging through my closet for clean clothes. Because you don't go digging through my closet after taking a bath unless you feel like taking another bath. I promise you that; I was not keen on taking two baths.

I admit, I might have a slight problem with… well, laziness. I just don't care. And even if I try to stay clean, hell, this is South Park. A truck of dirt would randomly crash beside me and spew dung all over or something just as idiotic and lame.

At least that's what happened last time, and I try to learn from my mistakes… that, and soap scares me. As does water.

I'm just a little ablutophobic, alright?

As if it's not embarrassing enough to be afraid of bathing, you just topped it by living with these homophobic racist assholes that has a problem with everything and nothing. Maybe that's just Eric Cartman, but fuck, it's not like the rest of them are freaking prophets.

Ugh. High School sucks ass.

* * *

You know that brilliant plan I had to take a bath and change clothes? Well, it was a success. Beautiful, slick success and triumph. Could keep my ego going large for years to come. More than one person gaped when one of the schools _nasty_ outcasts showed up at Wendy Testaburger's 'supah aweshum partay', and would you know! He looked almost… decent. Under all that mud and grime, there was a person!

Whoop-de-fucking-doo. Call the media.

"Holy shit! Is that…?"

"Man, who's that?"

"It's that... DogPoo kid,"

"Really?!"

"Looks like it, yah,"

"… dude, that's rad,"

"Heh... boobs,"

Oddly enough, I can thank Stan Marsh for everything I have now. He was the one that actually had the guts to sling an arm around my shoulders and shove a cup of… something into my hands like I was already one of them back at the party. And that gave me a _huge_ push in the right direction.

And when I say _huge _I mean _huge huge_!

Being such a popular guy himself, everyone followed Stan's example. Like trained puppets or some kind of crap like that. People smiled – very fake smiles, but what the hell – and gave me a pat on the back, acknowledged me. Hell, one or two of them even convinced me to join their drinking games. Which was a terrible idea on my part, because I hate games.

And the more alcohol people consumed, the better things went. I wasn't much of a drinker myself, but if the rest of the school wasn't, I'd definitively not been sitting with the more popular kids at lunch now.

I think it'd been like… two hours, maybe three, when Clyde Donovan tripped and landed on the couch beside me, landing very awkward. He was as wasted as ever, only grinning stupidly and taking his legs off my lap when some unnamed random dude took a seat on the other side of him.

"Heeey," he slurred, gawking stupidly at me, "Aren't you that… kid?"

I knew what he was trying to do. Ask as politely as a drunk guy could if I was that 'Dog Poo' kid. Which I was. Even though that's _not _my actual name.

"What kid?"

"That… Dog Poo?"

I knew it. I'd known all along that someone would bring it up, but it still ticked me off. Talk about failed nicknames, sheesh.

"Yeah… I have an actual name, you know," I'd sneered at him, finishing whatever was left in my cup at the time.

Not much, actually. Like... a mouthful of beer? Or was it some sick mix of something else? Who knew.

"Really?"

That's one thing I hadn't expected. Sitting on the armrest of the couch, only inches from my shoulder, was Stan Marsh, grinning widely.

"Yeah,"

Again with the really lame answers. I'm like… the epitome of stupidness.

"And what's that name, then?"

Despite being, you know, though outcast dude that often gets into fights at school, I'm oddly self-counscious. Moments like those makes me want to vomit.

"Eh… I'm Lucas Brasfield,"

"That's…" Clyde waved his entire arm around in the air, almost like he was trying to win a sword-fight with a ceiling cat or something, "… unexpected!"

"Nah," Stan shoved another beer into Clyde's hands, still wearing that shit-eating grin that made me feel absolutely ridiculous, "It's a cool name, I like it,"

As cliché as it sounds, that's when he stole my heart. Just, you know, teen hormones that acted up. Again. Giving me this terribly random, painful crush on our schools most popular and straight guy.

It's because I'm gay, ain't it? Whatever God there is hates me for it. I love God, but right now I seriously wish that he'd cut me some slack. I'm almost sure… even though I'd rather not mention that whole 'I love God' thing in front of certain... scary people with shovels. If you get my drift.

So, as the hours ticked by and my hormones forced me to drink more than idiotic amounts of booze, I eventually blacked out. Just like 74% of the people in there did at some point.

Guess where I woke up?

Naked. In bed. Beside Stan Marsh.

No one knows what actually happened that night, we were both too drunk to remember shit, but for some freaking lame reason, we stuck together.

For-ev-uh.

Oh yeah. This will make a freaking hilarious story. As long as no one notices those… little… lies in it. Because it all didn't go _that _smoothly. But hey, a guy can try, can't he?

Ehe.

* * *

**THOD - **Jesus Christ. I suck. *head/wall*


End file.
